Deus Ex Preteritus
by vaughn-decker
Summary: Set in the world of Deus Ex before the revelation of the Conspiracy by JC Denton, Deus Ex Preteritus revolves around Paul Denton and his early UNATCO adventures, and the shadowy world around him...
1. Part 1

**Deus Ex Prequel**

_"Nihil aliud scit necessitas quam vincere."__  
__-Syrus_

Part I

_In recent years the swelling tide of international terrorism coupled with enmity between states, wildly varying laws, and an anachronistic devotion to arbitrary borders has resulted in the decreasing effectiveness of local law enforcement. To resolve the problem, a neutral agency was required to enforce international law in an impartial manner around the world.The United Nations Anti-Terrorist Coalition-UNATCO was formed with just such a mission in mind, an organization that could transcend national boundaries and provide security for all nations that subscribe to its charter. Founded with the principles of the United Nations as its cornerstone, UNATCO is FAIR, JUST, and protects the individual liberties of all the citizens of the world.The criminal thrives on anonymity, but soon there will be no place for them to hide. Victory over terrorism is the prize for our VIGILANCE._  
  
**_From the UNATCO HANDBOOK: Appendix A_****2046 - Seattle**  
  
Shadows hide the secrets of the night. Shadows are the absence of light, and veils of shade. Darkness is a shadow in itself, the veil of all shadows.  
The night is dark.Paul Denton was acquainted with the night, a secret in the shadows. To the untrained eye he wasn't even there, only darkness, only shadow. The night kept him well, and he kept well in the night. It was his profession, his field of expertise. He was a secret in the shadow, and a deadly one at that.Stealth was his art, and covert takedowns were his masterpieces. He was a dangerous combatant when faced openly, but if you didn't see him, you were already dead. Whether it was a pistol, snipe rifle, or combat knife, any weapon he wielded in the dark served as the tool of his work.  
This time he had the pistol.Leaning against the wall in the shadows of the alley he hung the gun by his side, waiting anxiously for his target.  
He didn't wait for long. Shortly after he had arrived here they came; two rugged looking bums decked out in khakis and Kevlar vests. The dim light illuminating the entrance into the alley revealed their ruthless faces and tattooed arms. They each carried illegal military class assault rifles in their hands. And they were casually chatting."Frickin' police everywhere," one said. "and the thing is, they're not just police, they're like paramilitary! I mean, what law enforcement agency arms their officers with .22-cal rifles and gas grenades?""Fascist's finally took over the country." the other spat."They always had it, only now they're operating openly. Can't live down the war, they can't, lest democracy runs its course and we're liberated.""The war's over - been over since Woods died last year. Everyone else is just the occupying force."

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm tellin' you, Uncle Sam hasn't seen the end of the Northwest Secessionist Forces yet. After we get our operation underway, the revolution will begin again. And either they'll separate the States or we'll overthrow the whole country!"

After that, a new voice spoke, from the darkness ahead of them. It was calm and stern, as if he was engaging in casual conversation with business peers.

"There never was a revolution. Leon Woods' grand army and patriotic war was only the desperate response of isolated fanatics in the northwest states who refused to give up their firearms. It's not the government who're fascists; it's the criminals who carry on that 'war' that are terrorists. And in this day, your 'war' is only a smokescreen for the illegal activities you perform, with the intent of wealth and territory on your minds. And occupying force? When crime develops to the standards of terrorism, law enforcement must also evolve to meet the demand to contain it. How would you feel if scum like yourselves were free to roam the streets to commit any kind of atrocity with military hardware and no resistance? Or am I asking the wrong part of the demographic?"

The thugs were startled. While the voice spoke and before they could respond a slug impacted into one of their open shoulders, drawing a cry of pain and causing the brute to drop his rifle as he lurched backward clutching at his wound. The other shouted out and aimed his gun into the shadows, but the red dot of a laser scope pinned his face, while he couldn't even see the assailant.

"It'd be wise to drop it." The casual voice said.

"If you're gonna shoot, then do you stinkin' bitch!" the targeted thug retorted, deciding not to comply. He was prepared to die a brave death, or so he told himself, trying to hide his sweat.

He was shot. The dot flashed aside and a bullet tore into the guys' hand. Another cry, another dropped rifle.

"Don't say you didn't ask for it. Be glad you're not dead yet. Now that that's over, I hope we could cooperate."

He sounded slightly amused with himself, not serious, strict, cold, or even threatening. This only agitated the thugs even more. They were crouching down and bleeding, and cursing. The first one shot had tried to turn to run away, but a bullet by his ear warned him not to. He stopped in his tracks and fell against the wall with a curse. The red dot resumed its position on the other.

"I don't want to see any unnecessary deaths tonight, but trust me, you're both expendable. Right now, I'll just be putting you under arrest. Don't ask for grounds; I don't need any, and brandishing guns is good enough anyway, not to mention we all know you two aren't just out on a beauty walk."

With that he emerged, a darker shadow from within the gloom. The shape of a tall man donned in a heavy black leather trench coat materialized before the thugs, a stealth pistol with scope in his hand aimed at them. It was still too dark to make out his face. With his other hand he reached into his coat and produced two sets of cuffs. "Up against the wall, hands behind." He ordered. They reluctantly obeyed, hesitantly turning their faces against the brick. But when he approached one flung around and swung at his face with his fist, using his knee to knock the gun aside.

Paul Denton, the trench-coated shadow, dodged the punch and countered the thugs' knee with his own. He jabbed the gun in his ribs and forcefully shoved him to the wall. The other had ducked down to retrieve his rifle but before he could pick it up the laser fixed on his nose. He swooped it up and twisted aside quickly, trying to let out a shot, but instead he was shot, twice in the arm and in his left thigh. Muffled cries and he dropped the gun again, falling to the wall behind. Paul cuffed the thug he had pinned against the wall and threw him to the side of the other, whom he bent down to, twisted round and locked on the cuffs. The Nanolock clicked and squeezed down on his hands.

"I didn't want to you rough you up – that was uncalled for!" Paul's voice was angered and annoyed.

"To hell with you too, bitch!" this was the one who attempted an attack with his fist.

"I'm authorized to kill who I choose. You're under arrest at the moment; don't cooperate and you'll be under six feet."

Groans.

"You police or something? You arresting us, what shit more do you want?" demanded the one who dived for his gun.

"Cooperation." They could feel him grinning.

Stifled curses.

"I'll put it straight – you work for the NSF, they're up to something. In this city, right now. Planning to move things out, contraband, weapons, you know what I'm getting at."

"So what? We don't know shit, you don't know shit."

"I'm sure you know enough."

"You can't make us talk, we know our rights!"

"Certain rights don't extend to terrorists. Where're you storing your hardware?"

"Fuck you!"  
  
"I don't have time for this!" Paul shot, pulling the guy from his collar. "We know about your shipments, and the city's locked down, but rats always find a rat hole. So you two rats are going rat out, or the cat comes in for the kill. You can forget about your buddies in the flat, the police cleaned this place out.

You've walked into the trap, and you only have one chance to walk out."

"You'll let us go, man?"

"I mean you'll live. Either way, you're already under arrest. But I might forget about that."

"Up yours."

"It's me or the FBI's interrogation team."

"We don't know nothing!" the other insisted. Paul sighed. He knew he shouldn't have thought it would be easy. Everyone in the hideaway flat had been killed in the raid, and there wasn't any non-living information or leads. He was left behind to apprehend any NSF member who might happen by en route to their hideaway. The rest of the police and FBI, and few other UNATCO agents on the assignment, were chasing everyone else around the city and searching every block. He couldn't get anything from his catch, but at least he had a catch. They might prove more useful under more 'professional' conditions.

Paul reached up to the wire transmitter hanging behind his ear to contact the FBI unit nearby.  
  
----  
  
**Three Hours Later**  
  
Paul Denton looked out from the helicopter window at the city down below, a dark maze of black dotted with specks of yellow, the space needle hovering in the distance. It was different from up here; serene, peaceful, beautiful in its own way, but down on the street...

"Your boys weren't too hard to crack, if this turns out right." The man sitting across from Paul said. He wore a black suit and sunglasses, even though it was night.

"Guess I'm not much of an interrogator." Paul replied.

"Hey, it takes more than a few words to crack a leak. Leave it to the specialists. At least you got us a lead."

The chopper touched down at another part of the city, in a wide and empty parking lot. Paul and the FBI agent climbed out, to be greeted by a handful of cops and two other FBI agents. Another agent didn't fit either description. She wore a black leather vest and had mechanical 'augmentations' or external prosthetics on multiple parts of her body. Her right arm was visibly modified as well as part of her face.   
She was one of UNATCO's "Mech Aug" agents.

"Good work, Agent Denton. It is well you prove yourself." She said in an accented voice. It sounded Russian, but she was Israeli.

Paul nodded. "Agent Navarre." He said. "I hope we get them."  
His face was young and firm, a sparkle was in his dark eyes, and a slight goatee traced around his mouth. He was the young former rookie just beginning to experience the uncertainties of the job, whereas Navarre was already weathered in combat, and had been on many missions with UNATCO. She had seen her share of victories, but even more failures. Optimism had long since left her, and this was heard in the bitterness of her voice.

"Let's hope this lead of yours is correct." She said sternly.

They hurried across the parking lot to a black military humvee waiting nearby. It was loaded with a few heavily equipped troops and a stack of weaponry. Paul and Navarre climbed in.  
  
Six other black hummers trailed the lead one with Paul and Navarre as it passed down the city streets, which was uncommonly lightly populated. A helicopter whirred overhead behind them, and on surrounding roads the police force was setting up blockades. They came to an industrial area and pulled off on the side road, shutting their neon lights. The chopper circled overhead.  
In the next moment several dozen troops decked out in black and brandishing assault rifles were scaling the grounds. They surrounded a certain large and dimly lit factory. The lights went out, the garages were opened, and the troops stormed in.

"Shit, we've been compromised!" a voice yelled out in the darkness of the factory.

Shots rang out as the troops moved in, splitting up and opening fire at the targets they picked up on their night-vision goggles.

Gunfire blazed everywhere. The sound of bullets ricocheted within the walls; people fell dying at both sides. More so for the terrorists. They wore light armor and had weaker guns, but it was a deadly firefight. They knew the law would come storming anytime, and they were prepared. Machine-gun turrets were hooked up to the walls and were spraying bullets everywhere. The troops responded with grenades and then unleashed these at their human targets. They were retreating into the factory, up stairways and through large doors.

The troops found loads of packed weaponry everywhere, waiting to be borne away.

They pressed into the loading bay with heavy exchange of gunfire. Here they found several white vans being loaded with metal containers, the same ones they found throughout the place storing armaments. Then they noticed - they were ambulance vans.

Everyone panicked as the troops came in, slamming doors shut and running for cover, or pulling out guns and attempting a fight. But they were mowed down relentlessly, rained upon by an endless stream of bullets.   
Navarre led the onslaught, striding before the troops with twin rifles blazing, always hitting multiple targets. She seemed heedless to any fire that came her way, instead making sure that none did.

The NSF was frantic, shooting wildly and trying to escape. The troops closed in on the vans, firing into their windshields at the drivers to prevent them from leaving, but some got away, speeding off amid the chaos at chance moments.  
Before long it was over, the raid was successful and the operation was shut down, though not all vans were accounted for. But the resistance was exterminated.

Paul flung open the back of one of the stopped vans and pulled out its contents, two containers hidden under patient beds. He shot their locks and opened them.

It wasn't guns inside; they were bombs. He pulled one out of its casing – a variant of C-4.

"We have enough shit here to launch a war!" a trooper exclaimed as they unloaded the containers.

"That might be what they had in mind." Said another.

"Round up the survivors, the prisoners. We'll see what they have to say." Paul said. "How much vans got away?"

"We stopped them all, sir."

"No, we did not." Navarre said, "Contact your police and FBI and tell them to shut down all roads within a hundred mile perimeter of this area."

"We have blockades set up already."

"For emergency vehicles?" it wasn't really a question.

"Oh, shit. Dalton, get on line one!"  
  
----  
  
**FBI Headquarters – Eight Hours Later**  
  
Paul rushed down the white corridor to the office at the end, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes. He hadn't slept at all after traveling across the country.  
In Seattle they had caught one van making its way toward the highway, fully loaded with guns and bombs. But two ambulances were reported to have passed by the roadblocks, in full sirens. The other they managed to track to an airfield in the outskirts of the Washington state; it was already emptied. Three flights had taken off from there since. The department of Homeland Security had records on them all; all were in country flights, but at various destinations. They had checked them all out, and found their culprit. The FBI was dispatched to the scene and UNATCO was notified. Immediately they had dispatched Paul to Virginia to get a lead on things.

The glass door slid open before him and he walked into the director's office. He was standing behind his desk tapping away on a datacube - the latest incarnation of the old tablet pc and PDA - mumbling to himself. When Paul entered he looked up and nodded.

"Paul Denton, welcome." He said, placing down the datacube. "The Bureau appreciates UNATCO's involvement on this case. We're running a step behind our perpetrators, and that raid in Seattle was only a lucky break. Every agency should've known about its existence long before we did. Who knows what else our local terrorists are up to."

"It's a trying and difficult time, sir. This country is being torn apart for the first time in recent history and we haven't seen the likes of it before. We thought we were prepared for anything that might come, but hey, you never are until they come," Paul replied, "no one was prepared for this."

"Yeah, you can never condition everyone in a society to be right-minded conformists. There will always be free thinkers, no matter how messed up their thoughts are." said the director.

"Hey, in America we're based on free thought, it's what democracy is about."

"Free thought within the limits of conformity. You could think what you choose, but rules are rules, and you better not disregard rules founded within the means of democracy. It's a restriction of freedom, a needed one, yes, but a restriction nonetheless."

"The NSF wasn't founded on any respect for freedom of any kind, save the freedom to horde guns and armaments, the very weapons that leak into the wrong hands and lead to dire consequences."

"That's what you get when you try to take away something as much as tradition. Like it or not, this country, the West especially, was founded on guns in civilian hands, and in truth there's nothing wrong with that. How else is one to protect themselves?"

"I think you're sympathizing with terrorists." Paul grinned.

"Who me? Nah, I don't disagree with anything the Administration puts through. It's not my job, and there's good reason to it all. Sporting Weapons came about when violent crimes were escalating and a surge in internal terrorism was on the rise. Leaving all these 'collectibles' lying about around the country surely wasn't going to help. But even if the act was disputable, Leon Woods went too far with his loony intentions of 'liberating' Washington, Oregon, Montana and the North Cal. What I find unbelievable is that he actually had a strong following."

"There were many splinter militia groups that didn't support the act."

"Yeah, well. Anyway, we're not here to reminisce about the past. There's pressing matters linked with it right now in the present. These shipments from Seattle, well, we're not sure where they all were intended to, but the NSF was surely running a large ring, all across the country. The latest batch you all missed in Seattle ended up in New York."

"City?"

"State, not far from the coast. Homeland managed to pinpoint the landing, but when we got there the plane was already emptied. Some sources suggested its cargo had been taken to the coast and loaded in boats, en route to the City. The coast guard's been patrolling the waters since, but so far they've come up with nothing. But from what I've gathered, the cargo has already reached the island, even before we learnt this. We're investigating as much as we can, all over, from Seattle to New York to New York City, but, like I said, they're a step ahead of us."

"So you think New York is the target for their fireworks?"

"If UNATCO got it right and it's a bombing they're planning."

"More than just a bombing. From what we learnt from the crackdown in their Canadian hideouts, it's a whole new resistance they're planning – a series of small attacks, riots, bombings and such, until they get their "liberation". It's like we have our own IRA now. But anyway, there were hints that it would all start off with a loud bang; a surprise for the nation, either government or corporate level - something that would have an effect on the country, instead of being a simple act of terror. So they're in Manhattan, huh."

"I'm sure of it. The local authorities are keeping their guard up, but you know how this stuff always eludes them."

"That's why UNATCO's here."

"You'll be dispatching to New York right?"

"It's my job."

"So you better be off right away. Our agents found something on the plane, but I'll get that to you when you get over there."

"Yes sir."

With that he turned and headed out.  
  
----  
  
**Hell's Kitchen, New York**  
  
The taxi pulled up to the Hilton Hotel and came to a stop. Paul stepped out after swiping his credit chit through the fee transfer. He closed the door and looked at the hotel where he had been staying for time out of mind, thanks to the manager who was a good friend of his. New York was his home, and although UNATCO's headquarters were situated outside the country, he worked at the branch in the UN itself.  
When the cab left he walked up the steps to the hotel, his trench coat flowing behind, and opened the doors. As usual, it was dimly lit and gloomy inside. Behind the front counter a bald man in a tattered brown coat smiled and waved.

"Paul, you're finally back!"

"Good to see you too, Gilbert! Business treating you fine?"

"Ah, you know the hotel. Getting worse every day, but I get by. And little Sandra's growing up. It's hard trying to make a living in today's world and find time to be with her, you know. And having no mother doesn't help any either." He sighed and shook his head. "But that's me, nothing significant going on here. What's up with you these days?"

Paul sighed this time. "You know me, too. Just work with UNATCO. Actually, I'm operating here in the States right now – even though we're not a Charter member. But we had an investigation that led to Washington, state, and the FBI insisted to D.C that they could use our help. So they're secretly allowing a few of us to run around the country officially. I'm not supposed to be telling you this, you know."

Gilbert winked. "Won't pass from me. You've known me long enough to know that."

"Yeah, I am telling you, aren't I?"

"Well maybe we could use UNATCO's help these days, what with terrorists running around the nation and that Northwest war just recently fought."

"Ah, it's Washington. Our Bureaucrat's don't like the idea of the UN operating in this country, it's like having a higher power over them."

"No one ever did like the United Nations. Not here anyway. Even I'm unsure about them working in this country. They seem like a governing tool for the third world, and a profit seeker at that."

"No one likes them anywhere. But Uncle Sam isn't fit to police the world; they only police their interests."

"What can I say? Big stuff like that always seem to affect the likes of us low folk, but we can't do naught about it. Good luck on your work."

Paul nodded. "You too."  
  
He climbed the stairway to the second floor, since it was always faster than the elevator, and made his way down the hall to his room. Paul pulled out his Nanokey 'ring', unlocked the door and went in.

The place was the same as he left it. There wasn't any sign that someone lived there; it was dull, dark, and empty. Except for in the closet, which was open and from which a faint purplish and green light emitted. This was from the holoscreen of his computer. Above the black splayed keyboard the screen was projected, a holographic transparent display, tilted slightly backwards, 17 inches in height and with angled wings off to both sides (being shaped like a stretched out stop sign), stretching the width to approximately 30 inches. The background display was transparent black, but windows and bars of blue and green crowded the projected desktop. Several files were open, as well as the inbox indicating it had mail.  
Paul pulled out the swivel chair at the desk and seated himself before the computer. The holographic monitor was sensitive to touch-click, but that required raised arms and the mouse was easier. He closed the files and went to the inbox, finding two messages waiting:  
  
**From: **JMulroneyFBIGOV.00011.00101  
**To: **Paul DentonNYCNET.33.34.4346  
**Subject: **Manhattan Project  
  
_Agent Denton,__  
__Now that you're in Manhattan we expect something should come up. I know you went to check things out in Hells Kitchen, but you might have more luck at the harbor. They arrived by boat, so traces of their movements should be easy to find, the NYPD have closed off the area to the public and are already investigating, but UNATCO and the Bureau should have more luck in the area.__  
__By the way, about that clue we turned up on the plane, Homeland doesn't think it's relevant enough to investigate, and we're busy enough to check it out. Might be nothing, but the owner of the jet is a company called Softeck. We figured they could be a front for the NSF, but that investigation is on hold. See what you could come up with if you have time and get back to me. __  
__Funny we're working with you guys, you know, though I can assure you it may be the last time. This country is really adamant about keeping the UN and its offshoots from getting any more influence than what it already has. But we look forward to seeing how you operate, and for the sake of this country I hope we pull this one off. Don't forget to keep in touch with Agent Wallis and Terrence; they'll try their best to assist you.__  
__Good luck over there. _  
  
**From: **SweetCharityGenericMail.34673.78541  
**To: **Paul DentonNYCNET.33.34.4346  
**Subject: **Hey!   
  
_Paul! It's me! Long time, agent! I know we just met last year and only saw each other for eight months, but we promised to keep in touch and you haven't written me since! UNATCO keeping you busy I guess. As for myself, I got hired with that agency I told you about, the one where I'd be going around the world as a sales agent for major corporations!!!!! __  
__But I'm at home now, so if you get here on some time off we could get together again; it'd be so nice to see you. The world could be very lonely, but I'm sure you know that more than I do. __  
__If you do come, look for me at the waterfront. Still my favorite place in the New York. __  
__Luv, Chase_  
  
  
  
Now that was email he wasn't expecting. It wasn't that he had forgotten about her, but everything else just crowded his mind, he didn't have time to think about leisure. But he was happy for it; glad there was something in his life other than the job. If he had to go see her though. He wasn't here in New York on leave, after all. And time was precious.  
But he made a note to himself to stroll the waterfront after all this was done.

Right now, it was business.

The lead; he typed Softeck into the search engine. Corporate Website; network specialization, interface design, business and networking software, etc. Everything else you'd find on such a site. He ran searches on the listed employees. Nothing of importance. His search was fruitless.  
Then he remembered Charity.  
  
----

Night loomed over New York City, but as always in the city, it was a bright night, and not thanks to moon or stars. The towering skyscrapers glistened in lights of yellow and white, endless light lined the streets and there was the endless stream of the red and white light from the cars on the road. Even the harbor was bright, and the docks were alit.  
  
Paul made his way through all this as he walked along the waterfront that looked out at the docks that stretched into the sea. A cold chill was in the air, it being late in the fall, but he had his heavy coat, and one never felt cold in the city anyway. He strolled past the crowds of people with no direction in particular: she just said to look for her at the waterfront.

"UNATCO man!" a voice called, young and female. Paul stopped and turned around, finding a young woman standing behind him, smiling brightly. She wasn't much shorter than him, her hair was silk black and lay upon her shoulders, and a glint was in her hazel eyes. She had a slender frame around which was wrapped a black long coat, her hands tucked in its pockets.

"Charity!" Paul grinned and swooped her in his arms, bringing her towards him in embrace and lifting her off her feet as he swung her around. "Hello to you too!"

She flung her arms around his neck with a brightening smile. "So you got my message I see?"

"Eh what? Don't you always come to the waterfront?" he grinned.

"I do, but you don't."

"But I know that you'd be here."

"So you took some time off to come and look for me?"

Paul sighed. "Well, actually I'm still on duty, here in the city."

"I thought UNATCO wasn't allowed to..."

"We're not, but look at this as an international operation. They need us here right now."

"Need the UN?" Charity asked sarcastically.

"UNATCO's not the UN, completely. We're international police. But let's not talk politics – it's nice to see you again."  
She smiled. They turned and started to walk down the waterfront, oblivious to the crowds of people around them.

"Since I was in town I thought I'd say hi. Congratulations by the way."

"For wha- I knew you got my email!" she playfully slapped him on the chest. Paul laughed.

"Let's talk over coffee, shall we?" he said.  
  
The Blenz Coffee shop was a quiet little place with a dark atmosphere and dim lights. Only a few people were there, sipping at their latté's and browsing newspapers. In the background a light techno-pop song was beating, to a lesser degree than one would hear in a nightclub.  
Paul and Charity sat in a corner of the shop across from each other, drinking mocha's and trading talk. They talked about Charity's corporate job and the traveling she'd be doing soon, almost as much as what Paul did now. She was fresh out of university and was also a computer expert, with networking and interfaces, and hacking. The first two helped her get her job; the last was a little secret of hers that Paul knew.  
She asked about his assignment in New York, his own hometown, but he told her that was classified. Ok, so most of it was. He was tracking domestic terrorists who were smuggling bombs into the Manhattan, probably for a bombing. Even with the police, FBI and Homeland security working 24 hours on the case they were still a step behind. The rats knew the city, and who knew what support they had in the sprawling criminal underworld.  
But they were in the city, and the authorities were doing their best to track them down or get a hold of their movements. After all, how easy would it be to travel around with a load of bombs?

Well, some of it was classified. The higher-level stuff.

So, anyway, they did have something else. A name, at the least. A software company called Softeck. It wasn't directly connected to the present case, but connected to the terrorists on whole.  
But the Bureau has its hands tied and they can't check it out right away. But who knows what Softeck might have to do with these terrorists? If they were a front, or a financer, than their records might suggest something, lead to another lead. Oh yeah, that was another reason why Paul went out of his way to see Charity Chase.

"You want me to hack into their mainframe and illegally acquire financial statements?!"

"No one will know, not even UNATCO. It'll be like I did it myself." A smile widened on his lips. "It's for the good of the country. You might be saving lives here."

"But you don't even know if they're part of it, or even if, if we'll find out anything!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice.  
"If they're financing the NSF, then we'll find out. That'll lead us to the heart of the organization, or at least to a credible source where we can find out what's going on – with New York and possibly everything else."

"That's a wild guess."

"Ever the pessimist, aren't you?"

"No, just being realist."

"Will you do it for me?"

She stared at him, wondering however she got involved with a UNATCO man. A blush came over her face and she hung her head, smiling and sighing. Paul

was intently watching her.

"So?" he asked softly.

She looked up, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"So what?" she smiled. "I'm sure you knew the answer before you asked."

"Hey, I don't know you that well."

She bit her bottom lip. "When do I do it?"

"As soon as you could. I wish we could've spent the night at least, but I've got some running around to do. Send whatever you find to me, and page me. And Charity – thanks."  
  
----  
  
Darkness passed by outside the windows of the subway, and the gloomy brownish-yellow light inside. Paul stood in the half-empty car musing through many thoughts and the events of the day.  
He had to leave Charity after Wallis, one of the FBI agents working with him in New York, contacted him. It turned out that the terrorists weren't too careful in covering their tracks, and the FBI and NYPD had traced them to the Upper West Side of Manhattan.  
The NYPD had executed a full-scale crackdown in the region, blocking off the roads and arresting any suspects. By the time Wallis and Terrence arrived a small war had broken out from a shootout between the police and multiple gangs, most of whom were from other parts of the city.  
The subway stopped and Paul rushed out as quickly as he could. Racing up the steps out of the station he found a police barricade in place and a stream of officers.

"What's going on, officer?" he asked the nearest one.

"You're not supposed to be here, sir, the areas' closed off."

Paul pulled out a badge. "I'm with Federal. What do you know?"

"We were just called in. From what I hear there's some kind of firefight going on, street gang bastards getting rowdy."

Paul heard too. A crack of gunfire erupted nearby, followed by shouts, the running of feet, and more gunfire.

The cop ducked down and pulled out his gun and radio. "It's been going on all night, whoever we're cracking down on isn't going out easily!" he exclaimed.

Paul brandished his gun and ran towards the shots down the street. Four cops were crouched behind a squad car, opening fire over the roof at split intervals. Down the road a group of thugs were advancing, firing buck shot rifles ruthlessly at the officers.  
A crashing bang erupted as a shell went through the passenger window of the car, shattering glass all over the place. Another shot took out the sirens.

"Shit!" an officer cried.

Paul swung himself down beside them as shards of glass burst above.

"Give me your gun," he said to the officer.

"What the-"

"I'm with the Bureau, my shot is perfect. Give me your gun."

The cop handed over his pistol and clutched his lowered head. The other officers braced themselves for more fire.  
Cracks blared and the car was hit multiple times. A deafening bang followed the rupture of a tire, and the car sank a few inches.  
Paul threw himself up with both guns in hand, shielding his body behind the car and lurching over the rear trunk, firing multiple shots before dropping down again. Three of the thugs fell over, but two came running and shooting more aggressively. The cops attempted shots and downed one, but one was shot in the process. He fell to the pavement with a bleeding shoulder.  
The remaining thug fired at the gas tank of the cruiser in attempt to blow it up, but before he could shoot again a bullet ripped into his chest and he fell lifeless to the ground. Paul tossed the other gun back to the cop.

He didn't like how they were being attacked; something was up. The NSF was stalling them. Amid all this ruckus they were making their getaway.  
A black car pulled up and two FBI agents in their dark blue coats emerged. One was talking on a cellular and running his fingers through his hair. Paul approached the other.

"What's going on, Wallis?" he asked.

"Denton, good to see you here at last. Well, the NSF is here all right, but they used these street gangs to cause a distraction, as far as we can tell."

"Where have the bombs got too?"

"That's the interesting part, we have them pinned down at Central Park. Don't ask me what they're doing there, but they are, they're holding out in the Belvedere castle. We've assembled a task force to take them out, we were only waiting for you."

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"That's why UNATCO sent you, isn't it? Think they've got the better qualified operatives right?"

"Is that what you guys believe? Why, I'm flattered agent."

"Don't push it, let's get going, we're ready to move in. We'll leave the street situation to the locals, though they're doing a poor job of handling it. Come on"

All three agents climbed into the car and it took off, making its way to Eighth Avenue.  
When they arrived they teamed up with five FBI special agents and headed up trail towards Vista Rock on foot. There were no sentries in the woods of the bush; a small contingent of NYPD officers had surrounded the castle. They were waiting for the specialists; the terrorists had fortified the castle and had armed guards at every entrance. And some snipers in the windows.  
The task force proceeded with hasty tactics, first launching gas grenades at all target points and picking off the guards with the assistance of night vision goggles. Then they stormed the entrances with rifles blazing, the thunder of gunfire clapped relentlessly in the night, sending shards of rock and stone flying into the midst. Muffled cries followed death, and bodies of the unarmored terrorists piled the Victorian halls.  
Paul led the advance, peering in all directions as they made up to the second level, encountering less resistance than expected. Instinctively Paul would pick up movement in the gloom, and in the split of a second the crosshairs of his gun swung across the expanse of space and a spit later a body tumbled in the distance. The green scope of the NVG's revealed the layout of the floor and detected no more signs of life. The FBI troops spread out and searched the area. The last pack of terrorists held out on the top floor, but they surrendered and the agents apprehended them without mercy.  
But the only things they found were guns and ammunition for battle, no bombs.  
Paul was as stymied as everyone else. They went through everything but found no traces of C-4. None was brought into the Belvedere Castle.

"How's the interrogation going?" Paul asked Wallis, the FBI agent.

"They don't seem to know anything, but they ain't cooperating either. But it seems to me that this was just another diversion."

"I was beginning to think that too, but then the question is, where are the bombs?"

"Assuming they brought any into the city in the first place. We confiscated a of charges, perhaps all of them."

"I don't know, its what they were planning to move, so I assume they were moving them first."

"We better move out, and get looking. Potential targets are being watched but so far everything seemed to have slipped by, we're moving one step behind. Come on, let's waste no time finding that shit."

As the officers moved in to detain the captives and seal the area Paul and Wallis joined Terrence and the other specialist FBI agents outside. Down below the lights of the theatre sparkled in the dark. Terrence had just gotten off his cell phone.

"NYPD made a break in the case. The Fairmount reported suspicious activity at its premises, and three men have been detained. Six charges of C-4 were found placed around the building, timed to go out at midnight," he looked at his watch, "36 minutes from now. S.W.A.T has been called in and the West Side is being swept like a desert, but I think we might be to late. The terrorists were clever with these throw-offs."

"And now they have charges placed throughout Manhattan's West Side with a midnight deadline? There's no way we're going to find them all!" Wallis said.

"And it's too late to give a warning." Paul added.  
  
Half an hour later they were racing through the air in a sleek helicopter, circling over the structures that towered below. What good they were in the air was elusive, but SWAT and the NYPD were already on the ground, so they were providing as a look out with a spotlight scanning the streets for unusual activity or attempted escapes. But Paul knew it was fruitless.

Terrence looked at his watch. 11:58. Four more charges of C-4 were found set at a bank, in specific places that would've crumbled the entire place. But there were no suspects. More had been placed in another financial office tower, on six floors. Their own security systems saved them, and the bomb squad arrived just in time to deactivate the charges. But that was it. The city was wired and the hour of detonation approached.  
  
**12:00**  
  
Paul gazed out of the window at the intricate maze of towers below, glass and concrete, dark and lighted, silent and ominous.  
A glare lit up in the distance, a bright ball of orange flame, an explosion from a blast. The ball of fire erupted and receded, to be followed by smoke and the tongues of flames.

"No shit..." Terrence said apprehensively as he watched the blast. They were to late.

A tremble shuddered outside, another blast erupted. Fireworks of destruction lit up the night. They had failed, failed to stop these domestic terror attacks that they should have long foreseen, and prevented before they happened, or were even close to happening. And it would have been worse, far worse, if it wasn't for the last minute crackdown thanks to the UNATCO Even the FBI had been blinded to the operation. But they still failed nonetheless, Paul realized as he looked out into at the scene of destruction far ahead. Planned, executed, and not a random act of terror, but – but a premeditated attack. On what? By who's orders? What were the NSF trying to achieve now?

And UNATCO even was helpless to it. They had always been one step behind.


	2. Part 2

Part II

**_Manhattan responds to bombing with controversial "Grid Zone"_**  
_New York Times, New York_  
  
_In response to the terrorist bombing in the Upper West Side residential and financial districts three days ago that left 45 dead and over 100 injured, the city's legislature has passed a new bylaw that calls for the 'grid zoning' of certain regions in Manhattan. This necessarily means that these regions would be 'walled off' from normal access to the rest of the city, and the zones would be heavily monitored under the scrutiny of the police. It is possible that the bylaw will also restrict foot traffic into the areas, which are being termed as high-security risks for terrorist activity. __  
__Already, however, the bylaw is being met with controversy.__  
__"It's ridiculous! Just another perfect example of the government catering to the rich elites and repressing everyone else!" said respected left-wing lawyer Barry Whitman.__  
__The mayor responded to this saying, "When terrorists and criminals go so far as to blow up places where people live and work and do so consistently, we're not going just sit back and let them. And if restricting vital parts of the city to stragglers, squatters, criminals and potential terrorists is the only answer, then restrict them we will. I for one am not going to wait for the next district to blow up."__  
__But the Liberals won't back down, and ACLU has promised to challenge the act.__  
__"We need security to protect our liberty, time has told us this," said ACLU spokesman John Heatherton, "But partitioning New York into zones of the protected wealthy and leaving alone the low-income areas only creates a visible system of class, and furthers the one we already have. It is a violation of people's rights, and it won't solve anything – instead by it'll make matters worse by breeding crime and terrorism in the neglected areas. So you can count on ACLU taking this to the courts, even to the Supreme Court itself. We're going to fight this, if it takes four, five or six years to win, so be it. America is NOT a police state."_   
  
----  
  
The skyscraper overlooked the city, the vast metropolitan maze made up of towering buildings and interlacing highways. It surveyed the long stretch of the island, from the sea that glittered in the sunset to the heights of the structures beneath it. The rubble of desecrated buildings stood solemnly in the shadows. The vast green stretch that was Central Park lay behind.  
From the topmost floor the window in the skyscraper two men stood there looking out.  
  
"How many?" asked one, a prominent looking man, with reddish brown hair and a stern face that appeared aged before its time, showing careworn lines and determined eyes.

"With direct connections, we lost at least 12. Others, however, had their merit. Many were bankers, financial executives, federal advisors and prominent businessmen. This was a directed attack." The other replied. He had a broad build and dark hair, and was finely dressed.

"Not by our old enemies, surely, for we got rid of them long ago." There was a note of a high pitch in the first's voice, stern and proud.  
"No, I don't think it was them. Official reports indicate the NSF and other domestic terrorist groups were behind the bombings. At least we managed to get the government to move for us. The Grid Zoning of important areas should lessen our chances of being targeted and hit."

"No, it might have been them, yes. Indirectly, how they like to play. The world is becoming unsafe for us. The governments are falling apart, but the zoning is a step."

"Unsponsored terrorists, their numbers are growing again. Like back in the 30's when dissident was getting out of hand, and an increase in unexpected attacks by the lower classes of society hit the world. Even here in America people are beginning to protest against the government and world institutions all too violently. Our grasp is slipping, and would've slipped long ago if it weren't for the change."

"Indeed, the old men didn't know when their 'influence' was losing its control, when their grip on the World Banks and financial institutions needed protection, when the globalized world was turning on them. Their ideas were outdated, and the more control they tried to exert, the more they lost, for they depended on invisible influence, the media, and other weak points to sway the masses. But the masses were beginning to see that they were being swayed, and began taking it out on the wealthy and powerful. Chaos would have erupted if we didn't respond."

The finely dressed man rubbed his chin in thought.

"Protests are widespread, and this NSF movement almost cost us a chunk of the country. We have to be careful in collecting the pieces and putting them together, lest we lose them while we have the chance to seize the puzzle. There are still many insurgents around the globe. And some governments are squeezing tight to maintain their power."

"Yes, we do have many problems. Organized crime is running too rampant and freely in Russia and Mexico; Texas is a mess; the NSF is only growing after its defeat. There are many factions trying to seize their own power and wealth, in the corporate and political world. And even then, we are having struggles with the old roots that refuse to die. Some of the great financial families are attempting to hold on to what used to be theirs. I believe they're trying to make connections with certain particulars in France."

"We need a way to bring things into order."

"We are looking into that. I've been working on a certain project leftover from the old days, one with high expectations and many possibilities. At first it would be the answer to our needs, and eventually it could take us even further..."

"Your work at Mt. Weather?"

"Precisely. I've been coming along slowly, but the process is complicated. After all, artificial cerebral recognition is difficult to implement on a machine. But there's good resources going into it."

"And our other project?"

"Again, started before the turnover, but I have high hopes for it. We have a few trial units, mostly copies, but there are still many kinks that need working out. The procedure is still only experimental. And we still haven't figured out the unique attributes the host possesses."

"The primary host was chosen as the desired offspring from the perfect candidate couple; both exceedingly intelligent, physically fit, healthy immune system with no allergic reaction to non-biological substance. Fortunately, these traits carried on into their child, only emphasized. And even more so in the subsidiaries. What we need to find out is why? What is it that makes them uniquely potential for the project?"

"What we need is a way to make tests on various subjects to collect an answer. But the number I have in mind is outrageous. It is mathematically impossible to conduct a probe on enough subjects to determine the desired genetic pattern and what would need altering. A few subjects isn't enough, or workable. There have been many failures already. We need a broader range."

"Broad range? Hmm, I think I might something in mind..."   
  
----  
  
**United Nations, New York**  
  
Paul rushed off the chopper and hurried towards the symbolic United Nations building, with its waving flags and reflective glass. He passed under the UN symbol and went inside, making his way to the UNATCO office on the middle floor.  
  
UNATCO was the collaboration of the United Nations peacekeeping forces, joint together as a separate division with the task of keeping the peace in conflicted cities and countries worldwide, due to terrorism or what more. It was the long arm of the UN that maintained order in a disorderly world, protecting the sovereignty of charter governments and civilized rule. America, of course, was not a member, and outwardly challenged the authority of the organization. UNATCO, they said, only got in the way of it and NATO, though the latter was declining. Without America, however, UNATCO wasn't a very prominent force.

Paul knew this and all the long history of the organization. He had joined it as he saw the horrors that happened in the world while he was growing up.

And now he was one of their top field investigators.

He hurried off the elevator and went to the director's office. He opened the door and entered a small space with a blue carpet, pictures and decorations on the walls, a UN flag at the back, and behind an oaken wood desk there sat the Director.  
He was a well-groomed man with black hair and a crumpled face, tired with years of politics and bureaucracy on the international scale. He pivoted on his

red office chair towards Paul, setting down the newspaper he had been skimming through.

"Denton, you're back. I'm sorry to hear about New York, but we'll go over that in a moment. You said you found something else, in connection to the case?"

"Sir, quite. Sorry for the delay in returning, New York was a mess and the FBI insisted I stay awhile to clear things up. Plus I did some digging myself, into the bombing."

"The NSF? You found out more?"

"Much. The FBI traced one of their transports to a company named Softeck, and so I followed up online, if you know what I mean, and acquired some personal data they might've wish to keep personal. The company is a financial front for the terrorist's, but even more, they're the ones who purchased the weapons in the first place."

"The contraband? The bombs, guns and ammunition? From where?"

"The black market, no doubt. That was hard to trace, but the records point to a man named Hogan Lenich. Six million dollars from Softeck went to his account, and he's a known dealer in arms and bombs."

"Where he is now? That's another link we have to break."

"I figured so. I gave the Bureau what I found, and they're dealing with Softeck now. I guess you'll want me to find Lenich."

"I guess that's what you want." The director winked. "Navarre said you're getting better, she said you performed adequately in Seattle, if not a bit reluctant. So I guess I'll assign you. Since we blew our first unofficial op in the U.S, this might give us a break. Do you have any idea where to start?"

"She checked that too. Lenich disappeared off all radars, but he does have a son. He's been picked up by the FBI, but he might know where his father is."

"She?"

"Huh? Oh, oh, nothing. I better get going."  
  
As he was walking back down the hall he came across Navarre, who was talking with another of the newly mechanically augmented agents. He was rather tall, a giant of a man hulking over six feet tall with broad shoulders and heavy chest. He wore a leather black torso that displayed his augmented features; both arms were half prosthetic, metallic silver with streaks of blue bioelectric lining. His legs were also more than three parts mechanical, and his bald skull was covered with a silver-blue plate. Both his eyes resembled Navarre's bionic one; they had been replaced with red ocular lens that protruded from his head. The man seemed half machine; they were the newest line of UNATCO's peacekeeping agents for the field. The hulk of a man turned towards Paul and nodded.

"Paul Denton, I am sorry to hear about your mission." He said in a heavy German accent, obscurely sounding the English words.

"I should have gone with you from Seattle, but they insisted I return and leave the case to you. Perhaps it was a foolish decision." Navarre said. "But there are other tasks that need approaching, and I am to be partnered with Gunther from now on – we are off to Europe on a strategic mission, and they say he is the top agent on the field. Where are you heading?"

"Still in America." Paul replied, "Still working on the NSF case. They might have connections with international arms smuggling, I'm investigating a link."

"That is well. We shall hope you can make up for the failure in New York."

"There's fault for that on many levels."

"Well good luck on the field," said Gunther, "hopefully you won't require the skills of our superior augmentation."

Paul nodded. "That's why they're sending me."   
  
----  
  
**Canyon City Bootcamp – Portland Four hours later**  
  
"The Northwest War is responsible for the influx in disciplinary institutions in the States. These bootcamps are actually 'good behavior' camps to teach our young people that certain things, criminal and deplorable, are not tolerated in this Country. They're just attitudes that are either full of unreasonable anger, rebelliousness, or contempt towards society. The people here would have their futures in the jail cell if it weren't for these facilities."

The woman talking was plump and enthusiastic, waving her hands as she spoke and taking joy in listening to herself. Paul strode beside her down the white hall, taking in everything she was saying.

"And the FBI runs these places?" he asked.

"Oh yes, with the need for them and the required funding, there isn't anyone else better suited for the job. They're becoming like a part of the community instead of appearing like an ominous secret police force."

"I never knew the Bureau to be viewed that way."

"Well, more so the CIA, but these days apathy towards government is growing."

They passed through the corridors and the many 'rooms' lined up at the sides, the living quarters for the detainees in the facility. Through windows on some, Paul could see inside, see young people restrained restrictively or slumping over on the edge of a cold hard bed. The walls were blank, and only one item was present in the rooms; a thick book entitled 'Rules of a civilized society'.

At room 451 the woman stopped and pulled out a keycard.

"Jacob Lenich, right? Yeah, he's the type the authorities would be seeking. Only eighteen but he has a long criminal record and has had dealings with the FBI before. He partook in his father's illegal business, smuggling arms and moving them about, plus he dealt in drugs and made a fortune in drug-money. The FBI had him on and off until they decided to send him here, see if it would do any good. Thousands are being enlisted into the program."  
They entered a large lobby that resembled the visiting room of a prison; in fact, that's just what it was. The woman led Paul to a seat before a glass window, a speaker box fixed in the middle. At the other end was a white table and cold chair.

"He's on his way right way." The woman said. Just then a guard led a young scruffy looking man into the sealed room and left as he approached the table.

No handcuffs were on him.

"I'll be leaving you two." The plump woman said as she walked away.

Paul seated himself before the window and looked across at the rowdy looking man at the other side.

"Jacob Lenich, I'm with the Bureau." Paul said. No need telling anyone UNATCO was operating on U.S soil.

"Yeah, what you want with me?"

"Hogan Lenich."

"So? Am I him? Go look for him yourself, who says I know where he is?"

"You ought to know something, after all, he's your father and you seem to have been acquainted with his 'business'. He's wanted, and make no mistake, we'll find him, sooner or later. Sooner with your cooperation, that'll make things easier on all of us. If it's later, well, you yourself has a case against you."

"I ought to know shit."

"Give me names, places you know he used to visit, connections he has."

"You know, you Bureau boys have been bothering me with shit all along, I don't have to tell you nothing."

Paul sighed.

"Perhaps we can reach an agreement."  
  
----  
  
A woman climbed up the dark steps in the shrouded stairwell, making her way to the topmost floor of the old apartment building. She opened the creaky door at the top and passed down into the hall, illuminated by only a dull yellow bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. The floorboards squeaked beneath her feet as she made her way down the hall, going to a lonely door at the right end. She opened it and went in. The room was equally dark, faintly lit. But it was rather large and around a square table in the center a group of well-dressed people sat. She took her pace among them in the solemn room.

"Beth, it is good to see you here." A somber voice said from the gloom. "Our numbers have greatly reduced, since, since..."

The woman spoke. "_Puisque nous avons été usurpés_." She said in French.

"Our time grows near, and many have left us, but there are still remnants of the old order. And we still have some leaders who resist. We must do what we can to preserve our heritage."

"Zurich is under the control of them, we must make haste in funneling our capital to safe sectors." Said a coarse voice.

"That would be an impossible task, what way do we have to carry it out?" said another.

"There is some security in the French banks, if we keep our actions covert." Beth replied. "If we make the transactions through a third party."

All eyes turned towards her, and quiet discussion took place in the shadows.

"Where could we transfer such amounts without being noticed?"

"Who could we trust, who could get it done?"

"There are many connections in France who eagerly participate with our parties. Multiple donations from various banks to their several branches could work the trick. And then the collective amounts..."

"We would need to process it through the administration..."

"It would be a difficult procedure."

"But a chance to remain in the game."

Silence.

Minutes passed.

Beth spoke again. "We must use the shadows to conceal our movements, keep everything clandestine as possible."

"So we have a chance?"

"If the shadows keep us."  
  
----  
  
Brian Flanagan landed the black helicopter outside of the compound in the wide empty parking lot. It was a smooth landing, for Brian was an expert pilot, commonly known by his peers as "Jock." He worked with the NSA and flew the things all over the country on sensitive assignments, or as common a transport for important people. But his reputation preceded him, and his name was widely known in the ranks that involved chopper pilots. He also sometimes flew for several high paying corporations, and whenever he was around government institutions would call him over their own pilots, since he was known to be the best in the business. At this certain instance the UN had requested his service, since they had no in country pilots and they needed a capable pilot who could transport their man quickly. And they were offering a healthy pay. So naturally Jock took the job and found his way to this compound in the middle of nowhere particular, a blank facility called the Canyon City Bootcamp.  
  
Jock climbed out of the helicopter and walked across the parking lot, meeting a trench-coated man with a goateed face halfway down the middle. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

"Paul Denton, UNATCO, we're grateful for your service." Paul said.

"Brian; call me Jock. Just tell me where we're heading."

"We're after one Hogan Lenich, and if my information's correct, he's holding out in a smuggler's bunker near Austin."

"Texas?"

"That's right."

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" Jock asked skeptically.

"I've heard about the crime lords and the RMA. Yeah, I know."

"Then let's get going."   
  
----  
  
**Texas**  
  
The Lone Star State was in a state of turmoil. Back in the twenty' thirties when the Nation was devastated by the great quake on the West Coast that dumped most of Southern California into the ocean, thus causing a major blow to the countries' economy and sending it into a recession, or new depression, many things began to fall apart. The U.S was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, saved only by the prowess of the international monetary fund and world banks, but with the government concentrating on the disaster on the ex-West Coast and struggling to maintain its international might, the needs of many parts of the country went unmet. Utah was the first to declare its intention to secede from the United States, annexing with it what was left of Arizona and Nevada. Of course Uncle Sam wasn't about to let this happen and moved swiftly to crush the rebellion. However, an inspired Texas, or multiple fringe groups within the State also announced plans for independence, and shortly after so did the Northwest States that formed the NSF. All these attempts failed, and the would-be secessionists have been pushed back to the margins of society, but various factions still fight on.  
Texas however, was chock-full of not only militant separatists but crime lords who were part of a Russian-Mexican Alliance, intent on taking over the State to solidify their power. The drug trade was the largest industry in this area.  
  
The chopper landed in a graven part of Texas, a patch of desert spoiled over with abandoned and rundown buildings and trailers; broken cars and makeshift facilities. The nearby roads were deserted, wired fences scaled off zones and guard towers were erected for snipers. However no one was present at the moment.  
Paul and Jock climbed off the chopper and stepped into the desolated field. Paul looked towards a set of buildings across the road, rundown and bleak they were, but light streamed out from within. That's where he was heading.

"Wait for me out here. I don't know when I'll be back, but I'm going to see if I could get some information." He told Jock.

"I hear ya. Watch your back."

"You two."

He nodded and walked off towards the street.

Among the buildings there was a bar, a sign proclaiming it the 'Tex'. Nobody was outside among the gritty streets but the door was open and mindless chatter could be heard inside.  
Paul entered the dark hall of the bar and proceeded to the lounge; dimly lit, grungy and half filled with ragged thugs and brutes and sly looking no-good'ers. Suspicious eyes tracked the newcomer as he walked up the counter.

"A forty." He called to the barkeeper.

A bottle slid down the counter. Paul caught it and popped off the lid, but he had no interest in drinking right now. Instead he picked up the forty and walked over to where the barkeeper was standing.  
He looked up; his face was grim and dirty.

"What do you want here?" he barked.

"I'm new in town, but I hear this is the place to come for business." Paul said in a crafty tone, not looking at the barkeeper but around the bar.

"Oh yeah? What business? What's with your rich boy dress – you a henchman for the Russo-Mexican drug lords?"

"Couldn't be more far from."

"Better not be, 'else you're not welcome here. But you've dealt in all the business there's to offer."

"Oh? No one here deals in hardware?"

The barkeeper gave a suspicious look to the stranger. He wasn't buying his act, and he was around long enough to know when there was an act.

"Listen bud, I don't know what you're playing at or who you are, who are you anyway? Police? Homeland, FBI? Well you ain't got nothing on me, or this place, so quit the shit, will you?"

He made his retort with all the sting and insolence he intended, shifting his attention from Paul to his bar keeping.  
But the UNATCO agent wasn't finished yet.

"Ever here of the NSF?" he asked in a lowered voice. "We know people here of interest to us, who we can deal with. I'm talking about arms and munitions. Someone told me to come here to find the right people."

The barkeeper looked up with renewed interest, and suspicion.

"I'll go get you a beer." He said before shuffling off to the back. Moments later a white-haired man in a brown overcoat emerged with the barkeeper. He walked around the counter and came up to Paul.

"So we have a newcomer eh?" he said in a harsh voice. "If you are who you say you are, and I highly doubt that," he folded open a small section of his coat, revealing an aimed pistol. "Come with me."

He led Paul behind the counter and down a dark hall to a metal door at the end. They went through this and came into a small and grimy room with a round table and a few chairs. Three other men were present, apparently waiting for Paul's arrival.

"And what are you doing here?" one snarled as he chewed a dead cigarette.

"Looking for business." Paul said coolly.

"Check him."

They weren't too nice in their treatment as they searched him for weapons, finding his pistol and some clips, but nothing else.

"And how do we you're not with the government?" another asked.

"You don't." Paul said.

"Yes, we do." Said a new voice as another man entered the room. He wore dark sunglasses and a leather coat, and his face was weathered and scarred.

"You don't think we let anyone come back here on trust do you?" he said as he walked in and shut the door behind him. "Biometric scanners have read every print you could leave from your retinal to your fingertips. And surprise surprise, you checked out."

"You ran my readings?" Paul asked.

"Do you know how many criminal databases your name is on? NSF you say?"

UNATCO's alternative identification had worked. Paul breathed a sigh of relief to himself as he regained his confidence to continue his act.

"We're not criminals, we're the new revolutionaries. America needs to secede from tyranny once again."

"Don't mark Texas on that list. We're our own state, and this country's going to realize that one-day. But while we're the underdogs, I guess we have a mutual interest." the leather jacketed man said.

"So you can guess why I'm here?"

"Guns. Guns, ammunitions, bombs, anything you need for a small war. We've been making many transactions lately."

"I heard about a Mr. Lenich in particular, someone said he was the one to go to."

There was a pause.

"That's if you're into the high end..."

"We're into the high end. We've dealt with him before... do you know about Softeck?"

"One of our customers..."

"No, one of our middlemen. We've made purchases through them before, but they've been shutdown. And that's been a blow. Lenich was our contact."

There was some discussion between the men in the room before they answered. One got up from his seat and stepped forward.

"If you want to see Mr. Lenich, you will have to earn your appointment to see him."

"Earn it?"

"There is trouble in this trade, and the RMA is moving in and trampling over everything in an attempt to take control of the state. They're the drug cartels of Mexico backed by the Russian mafia, and they wield more power than the feds in these parts. You could say we're at war with them, and everyone now and then there's a little something come up that we must counter; a raid on their punks the requisition of a shipment or a little this here and there. Thing is, we lack the resources and people to keep it up, so if you want to do business with us, you have to pay for your part."  
Paul was silent for a minute, pondering what this meant and how far things would go. But it was his assignment, and there wasn't any other way.

"What do you want me to do?" he said.  
  
----  
  
As they walked out of the bar Paul glanced towards the black helicopter in the gloom. He saw the shadow of Jock standing there, looking over and pondering what to make of the four guys with him. But they weren't heading his way. Paul stared long enough to receive a signal from the pilot, and he nodded and indicated that he should follow. Jock appeared to understand and nodded back, turning and climbing into his chopper.  
They walked to another bunker down the marred street, past broke-down cars and rundown buildings; burning cans with people crowded around them, getting warm and making deals or listlessly roaming about. The Texan landscape was gloomed over in the background; an ominous mood hung in the dry air.

Behind a wired fence they came to a door that required a code to open. One of the Texans entered this and they proceeded in, going down a lank metal corridor. At last this opened up into an underground hangar occupied with three military grade helicopters, though these were worn and rusting, their green paint peeling away to a dull black.

"You guys really are loaded here." Paul observed.

Other men emerged bearing carts laden with guns and weapons of all kinds on them.

"Hell right about that." One of them said. "Take your pick, we're going in for a ride."

Jock had followed them to the bunker, but they had disappeared inside and were taking some time in there. He landed the chopper half a mile outside and watched his monitors for any signs of movement. Twenty minutes later he picked up three helicopters coming from an opening in the bunker. They ascended and took off overhead, their propellers roaring as they raced away. He waited and then started up his bird, bringing it into the air and following the three choppers.

They covered many miles over the Lone Star State, coming to more southern parts where the towns and streets were grittier and gunfire hardly ceased in the urban dwellings. The ranches and open plains that the State once knew were carved into holdouts for crime lords and their small armies. It was to one of these where Jock had followed Paul and company.  
The ranch below had been transformed into a fort, with barracks and towers and fences scattered everywhere. And it was heavily fortified. When the helicopters swarmed over down below militants were scurrying to position, and small explosives were launched into the air. Jock was able to avoid the conflict, swerving aside and circling around the ranch.

Blazes of gunfire spat from the three choppers as they lowered down near the mansion. Mexican militants in brown fatigues poured in from all directions, but machine gun fire cut scores of them down. Paul emerged from one of the helicopters with about six men, and sixteen more together climbed from the others. A small and bloody war broke out in the field, but Paul rushed towards the compound with wielding his assault rifle to mow down anyone who crossed his line of fire. Four Texans backed him up as they shot down the front door and stormed inside.

"We'll hold off the fort, you know what to do!" the gruff Texan called to Paul.  
He nodded and made way to the staircase, following them up the top level. He barged in a door to find two burly men shouting at each other and cursing, in a European language – no, Russian.

They turned to Paul and each drew a gun, but he dodged aside and shot one in the arm, causing him to lunge backwards against the wall and stain it with his blood. A stream of bullets from his rifle splintered across the legs of the other. He screamed in pain and fell to his back, dropping his gun. Paul left the room and went to another, finding a computer terminal rested upon an oaken desk. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the gunfire coming from below, and set himself before the translucent display. After searching the files on the hard drive he hooked up his datacube and downloaded the information onto it.

Racing downstairs he found a mess of blood and bodies, but the battle was over and six Texans were still standing. He came to them and handed over the datacube.

"Good job." The receiver said.

Paul glanced around. "We've killed a lot of people, but it was easy. You guys do this a lot?"

"All the time, this is life now that we're neither a State nor a country. But we ain't about to let the Mexicans and their foreign bosses move into the place."

"What did you need me for? You guys handled it pretty well."

"Consider it your test before getting accepted among our higher ranks."

"Lenich?"

"Not just anybody meets him. Come on, let's move before word get's out."  
  
They landed at another compound several miles away. As they climbed out of the choppers a contingent of hefty men approached them, a tall one in particular stepping forward.

"Good job. I'm Hogan Lenich, you're the one from the NSF?" the bearded man said. Paul nodded and extended out his hand holding the datacube.

"That's me. I got the data you guys wanted, what is this stuff anyway?"

"Nothing important; as often as not we raid the RMA for guns and drugs, anything that'll put them out. And every piece of info we can get on them is valuable."

"So you're with the secessionists? I thought you were a dealer..."

"That's right, this war is also my war, and every war needs funding. We've got stock loads of loose armaments that could go around, and always more. But we don't need it all, so why not put it into the hands of other revolutionaries who want only freedom? For a price. You'd never guess how much eager customers we have waiting to get their hands on this stuff."

"So I'm sure you know why I'm here." Paul said.

"Ah, yes, come inside."  
  
In the end Paul ended buying enough armaments to start a small war, all on UNATCO's credit line. He had the shipments directed to six ambiguous locations throughout the country, but what the sellers didn't know was that there were certain authorities waiting for them. He was taken back to the bar and from there he went out and contacted Jock, who met him at the same place they landed earlier.

"Is it over?" Jock said as they boarded the chopper.

"We've found Lenich and his base of operations; as soon as we get back to New York there'll be a raid by the Armed Forces. I don't think UNATCO will get involved this time."

"The country is still adamant about keeping as far from you guys as possible, don't ask me why."

"Americans are suspicious about control issues, but let's get out of here before something goes wrong."

"Right away."

Minutes later the black helicopter was hovering back into the dusty Texan horizon and off into the distance. Paul gazed down below and shook his head at the happenings in the country that once thought it knew freedom and peace, now raged by internal wars and chaos. It saddened him how things were; and that's why he was an agent for UNATCO. Whatever he could do to make things better, he'd do.  
  
**United Nations, New York**  
  
"Good job, that's one bright thing from this whole mess. We've already contacted the authorities, they're moving in as we speak."  
The director tried to appear more ecstatic than normal, but it was simply a cover; this desk job was as tiring as any field agent could get. Pressure from bureaucrats both sides of the table kept him on his toes, and he didn't know how much more he could take. First, no one wanted UN interference on American soil, and then they were working along side the government on high-level matters. On the other hand some people in high places wanted the US to charter the agency as a prominent force, but this was hotly disputed. Everyone was trying to get the UN to work their side of the field.

"Hope this cleans things out a bit. That's billions of dollars and truckloads of munitions to be crack downed on, it should level the field a bit."

"Guess that winds up this assignment." Paul said.

"That's it. And some news; UNATCO's to remain off-duty in the States until the debate is settled over the chartering. So that leaves you free for now, unless you want me to send you to Hong Kong; they're still interested in having you over there."

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I could use the rest."

"We all could, but the NSF threat could get out of hand and then there'll be no option but to charter, and then your resting days will be over."

Paul grinned. "Well, I'll make the most of my time off."

"You do that."  
  
** - ****_Public Message Bulletins_****  
**  
_**U.S Homeland shuts down major internal smuggling ring.**_

_  
Yesterday Homeland Security launched the largest crackdown on internal criminal factions involved in international arms smuggling, arresting more than 200 suspects and seizing millions in illegal armaments. The operation was a joint assault by Homeland forces, the FBI, the National Guard and various State police departments. Information leading to the crackdown was credited to Homeland with the assistance of intelligence from the FBI and the United Nations investigative unit.  
The raid centered in Texas, where the Russo-Mexican Alliance is known to operate, and where other illegal dealers have their strongholds. The outcome is said to have severed direct supplies to internal terrorist factions such as the NSF, but they have openly stated that they will only continue to become stronger.  
This has led one of America's most outspoken politician's, Walton Simons, to again call for a state of emergency to be declared so necessary agencies can get control of the situation.  
"If certain people in certain places had the power to quell the rising instability in this country, they would, but right now the government wants to wait until the pot boils over." He said at a press conference yesterday. "FEMA is affiliated with Homeland security, and that only constraints their abilities in handling with the rising crisis of internal terrorism. And in this time we need more of them, and less of those useless interferers over at the UN, who have been secretly sticking their noses into our affairs."   
There is still debate about whether the United States should become a charter member of the United Nations Anti-Terrorist Coalition.  
_  
  
"Something tells me you had something to do with this, with UNATCO, right?" Charity said. She and Paul were standing before the Public Message Terminal, going over the daily bulletins. His arm was wrapped around her, holding her closely and tightly, a comfort in the cold and from his life. She was holding a cup of coffee, sipping at it as she finished reading the bulletin.

"I'm right aren't I?" She asked again.

Paul smiled. "That's classified. If I told you I'd have to-"

"Thought so. So that's what you've been up these past few days!"  
They walked away from the terminal and strolled down the dark city street; almost empty it was, save for the burning barrels that warmed the homeless, and the small crowds that had nothing better to do. Everyone else kept away from unnecessary places, as anything could happen in these times. Paul and Charity passed among the rundown buildings and dirty sidewalks as they headed for his place.

"It's nice to get some time off. I've missed your cheery voice." Paul said, avoiding her topic. It was the one thing he didn't want to talk about when he was with her, his work. It was stressful enough already, and now he wanted to relax. He leaned into Charity and let the smell of her clean raven hair caress his face.

"Did I help any with those records I acquired for you?"

She was persistent. Paul squeezed her and smiled to himself.

"Still classified. What about yourself? When do you start your new job?"

"Sooner than I'd like, I won't be around here much when I do, you know."

"Well I'm already not around much. It's nice to see we're still together."

Charity smiled and finished her java, tossing the cup into a nearby burning barrel. She cuddled into Paul's arms and thought about their relationship, he the UNATCO man always off around the world for the sake of peace and security, and she, just another girl, young and innocent, not yet troubled by the troubles of the world, the troubles that she knew Paul had to face every day. That's probably why he was with her; she was his escape from the hardships of reality, his warmth after a cold day. And he was her threshold to reality, who kept her from ending up like any other girl on the street. And she also knew loneliness, so he was her company. They needed each other, and both were happy to have each other. And though they might seldom see each other, and would so more often in the near future, at least they were there.

"We've a groovy kind of love here, huh?" she said softy, almost unaware that she was speaking her thoughts. Paul held her tightly. A warm glow enveloped them both, and they walked in contentment down the dark street.  
  
----  
  
"The recent crackdown has been a success, but do you realize we weren't behind it?" They walked down the marble floor in the dark hall, the towering red walls reflected at their feet. He seemed but a shadow, his black hair and black coat blending in with the ambient dark.

"Yes, I am aware that there is still too much uncertainty over there. And the United Nations is flexing itself in places it shouldn't be. They're going to be a problem unless they charter with the US soon. That'll give them a check and allow us to keep them in place."

The other stood out in the dark; a beige jacket over gray pants, and his face was rather pale.

"True, but the people themselves oppose the idea, as well as most figures among the government. And they're still too independent. We have to find a way to bring things into balance."

"We're looking into that. The Ambrosia project is well underway; we can take advantage of its original purpose and use it to give us some leverage. Everything else will fall into place; my work at Mt. Weather, the constructor's under development and the planned Hub al intertwine to a single ultimate purpose. The light will shine soon."

"Mmm. But we have to consider the early obstructions. The remnants in France are moving, and there are others still operating strongly. I have a plan though."

"Good, then I will leave it up to you so I can concentrate on my work. How is the progress of the potential units?"  
"Both are exceptional, but one has joined the UN, and the other aims to also. But that's well, it might turn out to benefit us in the long run."

"You're sure it's not tainted?"

"Quite sure. I'm monitoring them well. We just await the completion of the Series-N project."

"Excellent. Then the pieces are falling into place."

The footsteps die as the two passes out of the room. Again the voice of the beige coated man is heard.

"Excellent." He says again.

They pass the midst of the hall, where there stands a dark statue of some obscure shape – a looming figure with outreaching fingers, and beneath, a holographic image of a sphere. An imitation of the earth, upon which the shadows of the overhanging hand dance. Darkness hung in the room as the lights had been dimmed, and the world hung in the night.


End file.
